


Chemical Addiction

by lilsmartass



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Begging, Consent Issues, Dark, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral, PWP, Past Mind Control, non consensual substance addiction, past non con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsmartass/pseuds/lilsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Originally inspired by this prompt on the kinkmeme:One of the Avengers (Steve, Bruce, Thor IDK) has chemically addictive come, meaning that their (fully consenting please) partner actually needs to suck them off once, maybe twice a day, or he goes into painful withdrawal. They like to use this to spice up their sex life, the one with chemically addictive come making the other earn the right to suck him, making him beg for it, coming on his face but not letting him taste as punishment, etc. However, it ended up being significantly less consensual that the OP seems to have wanted so I posted here instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chemical Addiction

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: Hard R.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own the Avengers. I totally do. I’m definitely not lying. You believe me right?
> 
> Warning/Spoilers: Not really any graphic sex, but mild onscreen dub con and allusion to past non con and forced chemical dependency. Clint/Loki, Clint/Thor
> 
> Genre: dark, angst, hurt/comfort, pwp

**Chemical Addiction**

 

Thor knows it will be today. It should be every day, at least once if not more, but the archer has never been good at doing what he _should_ do, and he hates this. He prefers to wait until he is desperate enough that it is no longer so difficult to admit what he wants, what he needs; until he is desperate enough that pride is no longer an option. Thor hates that, no matter how arousing he finds it to have Clint Barton on his knees before he has barely crossed the threshold of his room, whining and whimpering and sobbing his need to suck Thor to completion. He hates it. He hates that Clint only comes to him when he is so far gone that he cannot help but think of Loki.

His brother has ever been mischievous, sometimes cruel with it in their childhood all those eons ago, and his jealousy of late has twisted him into a creature Thor no longer recognises and cannot love, but he does not believe he would have hated Loki if not for this. That, ultimately, has always been Thor’s greatest weakness, he himself will endure what he must, but to know that this was inflicted on one of his friends...a man who had been suffering while Thor was proudly declaring Loki still a Prince of Asgard...that is unacceptable. And it is unacceptable for Loki to do this to anyone, but particularly to this man, this warrior, who feels his reduction and his humiliation keenly.

The sharp rap at his door does not surprise him, nor does the sight of the ashen faced Hawkeye, barely standing, who almost tumbles inside. He seems to be alone, but Thor does not doubt that Natasha at least is nearby, Tony most likely monitoring the security feeds to be sure he got here safely. They are all desperately, fiercely protective of Clint when he is afflicted like this. Thor takes a second to sweep his gaze down the seemingly empty hallway, letting the fire in his eyes reaffirm his vow that he will not hurt the archer, will do what is in his power to make this, if not good, then bearable for him. He turns away when he feels the tug of frantic hands on the jeans Tony had insisted on buying for him.

He shuts the door hard, harder than is necessary in this fragile world and a few flakes of plaster and paint fall like snowflakes to the floor. Neither Thor nor Clint are even aware of them, riveted as they are to one another, Thor doing what he can to force down the sickening horror in his stomach at the sight of Clint already on his knees, eyes filled with an animal lust, which seem, just for a moment, to turn them ice blue. The cold shaking fingers, clench again at the knee of Thor’s jeans, and Clint lowers his head, submissive now as he never is in the face of monsters and supervillians and S.H.I.E.L.D’s bureaucratic wrath.

Thor closes his eyes against the pain in his heart for a second, _just a second, to make Hawkeye wait needlessly is a cruelty itself_ and unclasps his red cloak, the only other garment he is wearing. He will not wear the trappings of a Prince and warrior while he does this. “Come here my friend,” he says softly, and leans down; using his own strength to haul Clint to his feet when it is obvious he no longer has the capacity to stand alone.

He used to take Clint to his bed, used to try and repay the pleasure with touches of his own. To stop was the only thing Clint had ever asked him for when not driven by the Asgardian chemicals Loki’s seed has infected his brain with. _I know you mean well Thor but don’t...just don’t. I don’t want this, I’ve never wanted this and I don’t...I don’t want to lose what control I do have by enjoying it. Please._

Thor has never touched him since, to the best of his knowledge, the archer does not even get hard, no more than he would sating his thirst on a brimming flagon of mead or a glass of icy water in the height of summer. And since mutual pleasure is not the aim, he does not taint his bed with the guilt of the shame he must put his friend through if he wishes to spare his life. He instead has a high backed wooden chair. It is uncomfortable, but that is its purpose. Thor had known what Loki had become and he had sworn to protect Midgard and he had still permitted this to happen. He cannot suffer as his friend does, but he deserves to suffer all the same.

He strips himself of the jeans before he sits. He does not understand Midgardians’ obsession with nudity, but he knows they consider it to be a vulnerable state. Clint is still wearing his S.H.I.E.L.D battle armour from the long day of training. It covers him from neck to ankle and, were he lucid, might give him a feeling of psychological advantage. It is a gesture it soothes some of the ache on Thor’s soul to make, and Clint has never objected. He settles in the chair, spreading his knees and guiding the archer to stand in front of him.

Needing no further instructions, Hawkeye drops to his knees with far less than his usual grace. He leans forward, just fractionally, lips barely grazing Thor’s most sensitive region before he flinches back, none of the gentleness Thor always tries to show him despite his far superior strength wiping away the remembered pain. “May I? May I please? I need it Sir, _Master_ ; I need it please, please.”

And Thor cannot abide hearing the archer beg for something that he rightly should not even want. This man would die before he would utter such pleas. He doesn’t have the words to express that Clint should not ask, should know he does not have to, that it is Thor’s duty to try and mitigate the damage his brother has wrought. He had tried once, and all that had happened was that Clint had silenced himself by the brutally efficient method of sinking his teeth into his lip until he bled and had prostrated himself silent, shaking and crying on the floor, waiting Thor’s pleasure. It had done Thor’s guilty conscience no favours to realise that Clint had been trained to that, which meant Loki had not only denied him the semen he had compelled him to need, but the right even to be permitted to beg for it. Already knowing therefore, that his words will always be unsuitable, Thor simply cups the back of Clint’s head with one large hand and draws him forward.

Accepting the permission with a fervent, “Thank you,” Clint swallows him down with a moan of pleasure. The heat of his mouth and the firm suction and the constant, teasing dance of his tongue are all designed to bring the participant to completion as quickly as possible. Thor cannot even get hard. Clint tries still harder, frantic and determined, removing his mouth from the demi god’s cock with a sound that is a sob of frustration and need and lowers his head still further, using his nimble tongue to lap at Thor’s balls and trace his perineum. Finally, he pulls back, and Thor should, would under other circumstances, be ashamed of the shrivelled thing that is his unmoved manhood. He cannot take pleasure in his friend’s degradation, no matter how skilled he might be, and yet, if he does not, Clint will die. There is no detoxing from the potency of this particular drug. “Tell me what you want me to do,” low and soft, like he believes Thor is toying with him. “Tell me what you want me to do, I’ll do anything. You want to fuck me Thor? You can have my ass, just please, _please_ finish in my mouth. Or do you want me to dance for you?”

It is that, the idea of Clint, of a fellow Avenger, displaying himself like the women who look after them on Stark’s flying machine, that shakes Thor from his stupor. “No,” he says, sharper than he intended, and Clint rocks back onto his heels from where he was reaching up to paw at Thor’s chest in offering and appeasement. “I apologise,” Thor says gently, though whether for the shout or his inadequacy he is not sure, “Your actions were most pleasurable, but, please, give me a moment to ready my arrow.” He smiles weakly at his pun, but Clint’s glazed eyes tell him he is no state to have understood.

He closes his eyes against the man kneeling before him, lips wet and swollen, parted to allow panting breaths, and thinks of Jane, her sweet smell and her beautiful eyes and the warm, firm desire in every one of her kisses. He fists his cock and jacks it slowly, attention focused on the images in his mind, remembering the way the light falls on her soft features just so, highlighting her dark hair with curls of rich gold, the exact quirk of her lips when she smiles, the tilt of her head which tells him he has made a cultural error, the way she would look in Clint’s place. His cock springs to full hardness under the steady up and down motion of his own hand and he can feel his own lust pooling rich and potent in his belly and balls.

His hand speeds up, he’s getting closer and closer, hips jerking a little as his grip tightens. Clint lets out a low pitiful whine, and Thor’s eyes spring open as he remembers abruptly where he is and why. “I apologise,” he repeats, rougher this time, and removes his hand, though it tears a whine from his own throat. He reaches out, stroking Clint’s cheek in soft apology before guiding him back down. This time, there are already beads of precum pooling at the tip and the relieved, grateful noise Clint breaths out as he laps up each of them with infinite care sends the lust Thor had deliberately induced in himself spiralling still higher. He grunts, and his hips twitch again as they long to thrust up into Clint’s mouth and Thor determinedly holds himself still, terrified his Asgardian strength might harm this more fragile man.

Clint takes the hint nonetheless and parts his lips once more, taking the whole of Thor’s length into his mouth and throat. Thor can feel his throat squeezing pleasurably around the head as he swallows. He groans again, louder and deeper, eyes fluttering shut and head falling back; he makes no other movement though his whole body is trembling with the strain of holding still.

Hawkeye sets himself a fast, punishing pace, rocking up and down, and using his mouth and tongue and lips together to create indescribable sensations. Thor is riding the high wave of pleasure now, the feelings incredible, lust roaring in his ears. He could draw this out, would, if he were with a partner whose pleasure he also wanted to assure, but Clint needs nothing, wants nothing, but the finish, so he lets himself go, falling over the edge of the wave and powerless to stop himself stabbing Clint’s throat with a dozen hard, brutal thrusts as he comes, flooding the archer’s mouth with the sweeter-than-human taste.

Clint gulps it down greedily, moaning his appreciation. He licks Thor’s softening shaft clean, fastidiously checking there is no more of the delicious flavour to be found. Thor’s eyes are opening, orgasmic haze fading, by the time Clint is wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and unashamedly licking it, looking for any missed spots of come. It is only then that Thor sees the split in his lip sluggishly trickling blood where Thor had hurt him with the violence of his climax.

“My friend,” he says, shocked, stomach clenching in guilt, reaching out to him.

Clint jerks away, shame now blooming in his eyes, and Thor lets him, grateful he once again has that option. “It’s nothing. Nothing I didn’t ask for.”

And that’s the crux of the matter isn’t it, that although he knows Thor would never abuse this position, he also knows he cannot refuse anything Thor dishes out, because it is he who comes crawling on his knees for Thor’s cock. Now is not the time to have yet another debate on that subject however, so Thor simply watches him as he rolls back to his feet, graceful and powerful as a cat, no sign of his earlier shakes and already beginning the process of painstakingly reconstructing his composure. “Is it enough? Are you sated?”

Clint nods, not meeting his eyes, busying himself with straightening his immaculate shirt. “For now.”

Thor returns the nod, knowing Hawkeye will pick up the gesture even without looking. “My door is always open to you,” he says earnestly.

Clint flushes, and turns his head away. “I’m going to-” he gestures vaguely to the door.

“Of course,” Thor answers, still not moving, experience has taught them both that Clint does not like for him to be close in the immediate aftermath.

Clint nods again and crosses the room. He hesitates, hand on door handle and half turns, “Thank you,” he mumbles, awkward but sincere, and slips through the door, swift and silent as a shadow, no doubt into the waiting arms of Natasha who will put back together the pieces that Loki so casually shattered him into and that Thor has once again ripped asunder.

Thor remains in his chair, silent and still. He has no right to ask anything of Clint, he was responsible for Loki and he feels the weight of his failure keenly, but if he could ask just one thing, it would be for the archer to hate him as he deserves, instead of always thanking him afterwards.

 

 


End file.
